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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324527">if all the snowflakes were honey buns and milkshakes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan'>perfchan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Klance Secret Santa 2020, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunion, but no hurt just trust me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:22:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324527</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Veronica just had a rank promotion,” Lance lists off. His sister is still aboard the Atlas. “And last summer, Kaltenecker came in first at the Montgomery County Fair. Kiiinda a big deal, man.” Lance mentally scrambles for more news that Keith might care to know. Seems like there’s not much. “It’s almost Christmas?” </p>
<p>“No,” Keith pulls at a lock of his own hair, looking down. His hand drops, curls into a fist at his side. Somehow, all at once, he turns back into that socially awkward dude that never quite understood how to make friends. Like they’re seventeen again, and just went careening through a wormhole. “That’s not what I meant, Lance. I meant, how are you?” </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>A reunion, a realization, and the beginnings of a snowstorm.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Klance Secret Santa</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if all the snowflakes were honey buns and milkshakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is a gift for lostkimin for the klance secret santa!! I hope you don’t mind that I made this into some kind of post canon/friends to lovers hybrid. It’s probably not /exactly/ what you had in mind, but I tried to make it fluff and soft for you :D I really hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One perk of piloting a giant robot that no one ever really mentions: parking is never an issue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like, you might be risking life and limb to save the universe on the daily, sure, but are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> worried about finding a parking space? Nah. Even during the busiest shopping rush? Nope. Even during the </span>
  <em>
    <span>holiday</span>
  </em>
  <span> season? Nuh uh. Not a problem. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Turning down yet another lane of the grocery store parking lot, Lance leans over the wheel, mouth pulled as he squints through the salt and sleet encrusted windshield. Endless cars stretch out before him, from one side of the huge store to the other, from the front of the lot to the back. It’s packed. Totally packed. Not a spot as far as the eye can— Lance heaves out a big sigh— </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh wait there’s one! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He scoots forward in his beat-to-death Honda Civic, mentally cheering, only to find, yep, nope, there’s a hovercycle in the spot, so it’s not an open spot at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>super</span>
  </em>
  <span> annoying. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the dead of winter! </span>
  <em>
    <span>December</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Christsakes! Who the </span>
  <em>
    <span>heck</span>
  </em>
  <span> is taking their bike to the grocery store? (Though. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a badass piece of machinery, Lance will admit. Regarless of the weather, he’d much rather be on the back of something like that— something that looks dark and sexy and most of all </span>
  <em>
    <span>fast</span>
  </em>
  <span>— then in his older brother Luis’ hand-me-down car, but that’s neither here nor there.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slumps over, watching a little old lady hobble back to her car with a cart overflowing with groceries— holiday ham, and ready-made pie crusts, and eggnog, too much eggnog. He takes the opportunity and tails her, but it’s no use: as soon as she backs her enormous old lady vehicle out of the parking space, another car zips in, and steals Lance’s spot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’d honk, or give them the bird, he really would. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>should.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But he’s got a reputation as a defender of the universe to uphold, so he settles for a nasty glare out the window as he drives past. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you stub your toe, buddy,” Lance mutters, driving away. “So hard.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Blue wouldn’t need a parking spot at all, Lance grumbles. Neither would Red. If Lance were in his lion, he’d just land wherever and strut right into the store. He’d be the talk of the town! Sigh. No more lions anymore. Red and Blue went the way of the dodo when they finally beat the bad guys and won the war. (You know? Voltron? It was a whole thing. Look it up if you want, you’ll find Lance filed under: paladin, most handsome and charming. Also: sharpshooter, extraordinaire.) He misses those days. Kinda. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes</span>
  <em>
    <span> foooorever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but eventually a parking spot is secured. It’s not a great one, and it takes him a solid five minutes to get his car into it decently (he’s not so smooth at parking, sue him! He lived without real gravity for, like, five years, maybe that has something to do with it,), but yeah, eventually he’s in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance makes his way from the far back of the parking lot to the grocery store. It’s not snowing at this exact moment, but there’s a crisp bite to the air, enough that he buries his chin in his scarf (handmade, actually, knitted, by him) and curls his fingers deep in his pockets. It’s been awhile since he’s been in town. His place— a secluded farmhouse on a nice chunk of land— is about twenty minutes away from a family grocer, but that local store can’t really compete with a big chain grocery store like this one. He comes into town about once every six to eight weeks to stock up on some random stuff he can’t get easily where he lives so far out in the country. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But today’s venture into society? Big mistake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Here the hustle and bustle of the holiday season is in full swing. Just a few days now until the holiday, afterall. There’s a big, cheery, blow-up Santa that gives him an ominous stare at the front door. (He could have one just like it for $79.99. Imagine that.) The sound of jingle bells floats through the air. An athleisure clad housewife with wild eyes almost runs Lance over en route to the grocery store Starbucks. Man, lady, take it easy. He’s just trying to grab a shopping cart! There’s only one cart left and it has a wonky wheel— harder to push than an Arusian hemmak, and Lance would know. He wrastles with the thing, only to find that, once he’s finally fought the crowd and made his way into the produce section, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He forgot his quiznacking grocery list! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cheese and motherfucking crackers,” Lance swears under his breath.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Cheese and crackers were not on the list. Probably. But a bunch of other stuff was. He’ll never remember it all.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There should be a grocery delivery service that’s especially for former the blue and red paladin of the legendary Voltron, Lance decides morosely as he pushes his wonky-wheeled cart through the aisles and fails to remember exactly what items he needs. Christmas carols play merrily on the store’s loudspeaker. This is the pits. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Truthfully, it’s not just today.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Things are just...well. It’s kinda weird, y’know? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To go from being in school, having big dreams of becoming someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>special.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Going from just-a-boy-from-Cuba to the most amazing, hard-working, talented, handsome fighter pilot that the world has ever seen. That’s where he always thought his dreams would lead him, except, then, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To then be launched into space and enlisted in an intergalactic war. Becoming a soldier and seeing things, wildbeautifulterrifying things, things that no one back home could have ever imagined. Aliens. Wormholes and mermaids and fissures in the time-space continuum. Food goo! But also learning a lot of tough lessons along the way. About survival and mortality and the good of the universe. About himself and what he wants. Or doesn’t want. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then, yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>saving</span>
  </em>
  <span> the universe. Putting it all on the line— his friends, his family, his life. Being triumphant. Victory is victory, but jeez if it wasn’t hard won. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To come home. Or, what he thought was home. Except for now, there are moments, there are a lot of moments during which Lance feels like an outsider. Not that anyone is ever cruel to him, really they aren’t. His Ma is here and he loves being with her and the rest of his family. That’s important. And people, everyone who knows him, who knows his story, they appreciate him. They do. But. They don’t really...get it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Humans are resilient. Humanity at large found out that aliens exist at the same time that the Galran empire occupied their world. Turned it upside down. Hurt them, tore them apart. But then the Galra were defeated and humanity bounced back. Life is forever changed, yeah, but also: Life went on. People here, they adapted. Because that’s what people do. And here, now, in this grocery store in a reasonable sized town, during the hustle and bustle of the holidays, no one, absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is thinking about space or war or aliens or Voltron. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except for, well. Lance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not to be heavy, but, y’know. It’s kinda...a lot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s kinda. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lonely. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>man, when did I get to be so doom and gloom,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Lance straightens up. He can do this. Yep. No problem. He’ll call Hunk tonight, maybe. Hunk is busy in an R&amp;D lab somewhere in the Trejsia system, but he’ll make time for Lance. He always does. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Resolute, he pushes ol’wonky wheels to the pet aisle. He, at least, remembers that he needs to pick up an economy sized bag of doggie kibble. He doesn’t have a dog, but his closest neighbor has two and she’s elderly. Lance helps her out around the house sometimes. He promised to snag her one of the super-super-sized bags when he was in town. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s another dude already in the pet aisle. Heavy black boots, tight black jeans, black hoodie, with the hood up over his head. What is he, some kind of ninja? Nice ass for a ninja, though, Lance decides, pursing his lips. Downright juicy even. Distracted by that peach, it takes Lance a moment to notice the content of the dude’s shopping basket, but when he does, Lance’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Dude! Ho-Hos and Ding-Dongs and Honey Buns. Cool Ranch Doritos and three different bags of Takis. A family sized bag of M&amp;Ms. And that’s just what Lance can see…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, really, it’s not his business. If juicy-ass-ninja wants to eat exclusively trash, that’s chill. Lance isn’t here to judge. He moves to get the dog food…but…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the holiday season. The weather is blustery and cold; a snowstorm is on it’s way. The store is packed with customers. Essentials are flying off the shelf. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s only one of the economy-sized bags left. And Mr. Juicy just hauled it off the shelf and put it over his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oh no. That’s not gonna fly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Lance starts, indignant. “Hey, man,” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man-with-the-fab-ass does not respond. He doesn’t even turn towards Lance. Just adjusts the big bag over his shoulder, tightens his grip on his shopping basket with his opposite hand and begins to walk away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hell-LO!” Lance calls, “I’m talking to you!” He marches closer. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one buying that dog food!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man stands just slightly taller than Lance, his shoulders slightly more broad. Those shoulders tense at Lance’s call. His head turns, ever so slightly in Lance’s direction. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s when Lance sees it: </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A lock of dark hair, curling out from the man’s hood around his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance would recognize that mullet anywhere. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whu— Keith?!” He sputters. “Keith?!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s impossible. Keith isn’t even in this </span>
  <em>
    <span>galaxy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith is leading the Blade of Mamora. He’s passing out weird cylinders of green goop to sad orphans on planet somethingorother (Lance has seen the press release photos). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith turns and looks directly at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hair has gotten shaggier, and the scar on his cheek might be lighter. But. For all intents and purposes, he looks just as he did the last time that Lance saw him. Well over a year ago. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No words break from Lance’s mouth. His heart, instead, does the talking— a weird thump-kick-jump like it forgot how to beat in rhythm, just now. (Lance might be dying.) It’s really him. Really Keith. Really</span>
  <em>
    <span> really.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Holy schnikes, Lance didn’t realize how much he needed to see a friendly face— and it’s been so long since he’s seen Keith— his mouth goes dry. Instead of finding the right rhythm, like it should, his heart picks up the pace, hammering fast and hard in his chest. (Lance is definitely dying.) Alarmingly, he starts to feel choked up, that watery feeling in his throat, but a smile is pulling across his mouth, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ke—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Have we met before?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Lance blinks. Falters. “Keith. Dude. Keith.” Lance points to his own face. “It’s me. Lance.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dark brows pull together, like Keith is trying to place him and failing. “I don’t—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know? Lance? Lance McClain? We flew giant robots together?” Lance huffs, getting closer to Keith, all up in his space. He pokes Keith’s chest in time with his words: “Shared a single consciousness on the regular along with three of our nearest-dearest friends? Saved the universe? You know, Voltron? Lance and Keith, space ranger partners?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith tilts his head. Frowns.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance is about to throw his hands up and gnash his teeth and question, why, why, did he ever come to the grocery store today, why endure this infernal torment, when, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The side of Keith’s mouth twitches. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keith,” Lance warns, “Don’t do this—Don’t you do this! Keith!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is holding back a smile so hard that it makes him stutter over his words: “D-don’t remember it, didn’t h-happen.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You—!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance,” Keith says, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance forgot how his name sounds in Keith’s voice, the way the low rasp of Keith’s voice curls around it when he’s serious, how he can make it sound so bright when he’s happy, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The basket and giant bag of dog food are abandoned, and suddenly, natural like a laugh, smooth like the finest Altean silk, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is pulling Lance in for a hug. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s solid and strong, the way his arms wrap around Lance. It’s not a wimpy hug, not hesitant or tentative. It’s, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> hug. It’s the kind of embrace you have when you’ve missed someone, when home isn’t a place but instead is wrapping your arms around them, when you can breathe easy because they’re near. A best friend kind of hug, maybe. A family kind of hug, maybe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith pulls Lance in and walks them both forward, like he’s tugging Lance so close the momentum can’t be stopped. He has his face pressed against Lance’s hair, and he’s smooshing Lance’s face into his neck, right there into the soft Keith smell of his hoodie, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance just grins because this whole situation is ridiculous, and Keith is such a shithead for doing that ‘don’t remember it, didn’t happen’ thing to him, and since when do the two of them even hug anyways? Not like this. Not ever like this. He wraps his arms around Keith and breathes him in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tugs the ridiculous hood down because why is Keith walking around inside with his hood up? He squeezes Keith so hard that his back cracks and Keith somehow holds him even closer and leans back to lift Lance off the floor. The two of them tussle, a mess of arms and grins and easy familiarity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude,” Lance says, ducking to escape from Keith’s hold. A dramatic exit. Probably red faced and hair mussed now. Keith is the same. He pushes him. “How?! Why are you even here?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith smirks. “It’s good to see you too, Lance,” he says, mock offended. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance waves that off. “No really! What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks?!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hockey sticks?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith mouths under his breath, frowning and confused. He glares in the general direction of the kitty litter. “Huh?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They might be older now, and it’s been awhile since they were together, but Keith is still Keith. Lance can’t help but smile. “I’m just saying, aren’t you still supposed to be saving the universe, one orphan at a time?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. “I am.” Smiles, closed mouth. (And since when does Keith smile at Lance like that? All fond and kind?) “But I needed supplies.” He points to the kibble. “And dog food for the space wolf.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re telling me that you came all the way to Earth for Honey Buns and Iams.” Lance says flatly. “Nope! Not buying that. Don’t believe it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Keith responds, “Is it more believable than coming just to see you? I had a break between missions.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, so, Kosmo must be really picky about his kibble, huh?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith rolls his eyes. He tilts his head, just slightly, looking at Lance through the smudge of dark lashes around his dark eyes. “How’ve you been?” he asks, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s not compulsory or trite, the question. One thing about Keith Kogane— and anyone who knows him will agree with Lance on this— he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t do stuff he doesn’t believe in. Polite small talk? Never met her. Keith asks Lance how he’s doing and the only reason why </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he actually wants to know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” Lance is so caught off guard by the question— as normal as it might seem on the surface— that he’s actually not sure how to respond. How</span>
  <em>
    <span> is</span>
  </em>
  <span> he doing? “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he emphasizes. Like, yeah, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>I? “Yeah man, I mean, things are—” Lance raises his brows, puffs out his cheeks, squints. “Good, yeah. Sure.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith, for some reason, doesn’t look convinced. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Veronica just had a rank promotion,” Lance lists off. His sister is still aboard the Atlas. “And last summer, Kaltenecker came in first at the Montgomery County Fair. Kiiinda a big deal, man.” Lance mentally scrambles for more news that Keith might care to know. Seems like there’s not much. “It’s almost Christmas?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Keith pulls at a lock of his own hair, looking down. His hand drops, curls into a fist at his side. Somehow, all at once, he turns back into that socially awkward dude that never quite understood how to make friends. Like they’re seventeen again, and just went careening through a wormhole. “That’s not what I meant, Lance. I meant, how are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Overall, good? A little aimless? Not sure exactly what I want anymore, and frustrated about it? Lonely, sometimes? Missing you more than I ever realized up until this exact freaking moment, like, right now I just realized that I—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A short girl with a nose piercing and long acrylic nails pushes a cart in between them. They both watch as she stands on her tiptoes to dump three boxes of Meow Mix in her cart, checks her grocery list, and then walks away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not doing this.” Lance suddenly decides, firm. “I refuse.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith blinks. Maybe, for just a split second, hurt shimmers in his eyes. But then it’s gone and Lance can’t say for sure if it was really there or not. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not here,” Lance continues. He has a better idea. “Keith, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh.” Keith pulls a comm device that is clearly not Terran made out of his sweatshirt pocket. He clicks it black again after just a glance. “I don’t have any?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wrong!” Lance makes a sound like a buzzer. “Yes. You do.” Lance corrects him with an arm slung around his shoulder, a wink, a finger gun.  “The plan is: you, me, and a drink.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds…like a plan.” Keith gives him a very Keith-like smile— not exactly the one that Lance remembers from successful missions and stupid jokes— but one that he’s seen more rarely than those kind of smiles. This is the sweet, almost shy, smile that Keith wears when he’s pleased and trying not to show it. The expression crosses his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance motions as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>after you, team leader. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s been awhile since they were together, but they fall in step like no time at all has passed. Lance at Keith’s side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Lance is a gentleman and allows Keith to be the one to buy the last bag of dog food. He’ll have to stop by the store again soon, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when he has his grocery list, thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and pick up a bag for his neighbor, like he promised.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Much to Lance’s horror, Keith does, in fact, seem to be on a mission to purchase every type of junk food that the grocery store can provide. Oreos and Cheez-Whiz and Snicker bars and Slim Jims. Good gravy!) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Much to Lance’s annoyance: that hoverbike in the parking lot? The stupid, beautiful one? That was Keith’s. Typical. He should have guessed.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lotty’s isn’t a dive bar, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but it’s also not, well, nice. It’s close to the grocery store though, in a strip mall just across the street, and it’s quiet. No doubt that’s mostly because it’s just shy of five p.m. on a weeknight, the week of Christmas, and people have other, better stuff to do besides sit in a grimy booth and drink whatever this place happens to have on tap. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn’t seem to mind the location. He strides through the bar, shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning the off color “decor” with interest. (Lotty’s can’t seem to decide if it's a sports bar or a diner or some terrible Applebee’s-T.G.I. Friday’s amalgamation. There’s an enormous oar fixed to the wall next to a framed newspaper clipping. Why?). Getting older suits him, Lance thinks, as Keith slides into a booth and looks nothing but relaxed. Confident in his own skin, in a way that he never used to be. He looks good. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance slides in on the other side, but it’s one of those round booths where the seat is a half-circle— he slides in the other side and basically ends up sitting next to Keith. On his right side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At his right side. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lance pulls off his scarf, shrugs out of his jacket. He cracks his neck, like he can unpin the thought from his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>on his right side, at Keith’s right hand, where he always feels most comfortable. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They order drinks and because there’s no one else there, the drinks come quickly. Keith sips his beer, and Lance can’t help but think that Keith looks too cute the way the foam clings to his upper lip, the way he licks it off, rolling his top lip into a pout. Leaving it glossy. The way he catches Lance looking, smiles at him, looks away. Lance tears off one corner of his napkin, the square napkin his glass is sitting on. He rolls the soggy-with-condensation paper into a ball between his fingertips. Affects ease. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He leans over the table, cheek on his elbow, elbow on the table. Looks up at Keith. “So, team leader, they make you king of the cat-people-aliens, yet?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith groans, falling back against the booth, tilting his head to rest on the dark pleather seat. “Lance.” He does a little side-to-side head shake without raising his head from the back of the seat. “You wouldn’t believe—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Try me,” Lance says. Tapping the tabletop for good measure. “I’ll have you know I’ve seen some pretty unbelievable stuff in my day.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both have. ‘Unbelievable stuff’ is par for the course when you’re a paladin. Comes with the territory and all that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“True.” Keith snorts. “Like, do you remember, the Rite of Throe on that one planet in the Argal cluster?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Duuuuuude.” Lance is immediately taken back to that challenge, years ago— the way his palms were sweaty in his gloves, the weight of the blue bayard in his hands, the anticipation, the red sky overhead and the black dirt underneath his feet. The way literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> happened and the paladins just stood there and looked at each other in confusion. For….hours. “What made you bring that up?” Lance huffs. “I’ve never been so bored in a near death situation in my </span>
  <em>
    <span>life.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hunk called it the Rite of Doze afterwards,” Keith is halfway to a giggle, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He called it that during the Rite too, but you were too busy </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually sleeping.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Lance informs him with a laugh. Keith was so irritated that the alien challenge turned out to be a dud, he all but growled, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘wake me up if we actually have to fight,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> and laid down to sleep right there on the battlefield. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting up properly, Keith makes a face like he’s trying to decide if Lance is bullshitting him or not. (In this case, he is not). “Did I?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You were famous for it!” Lance exclaims. He takes a sip of his beer. “Remember the senate meetings on XJM-N_937-9?” At Keith’s blank look, Lance cackles. “Dude. Allura had to make a formal statement of apology because one of the main cameras showed you passed out during the proceedings. Mouth open, head back, snoring. The whole shebang. In front of literally millions of aliens.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grumbles but he doesn’t look truly angry. “Too much talking at those meetings. Politics are like that— everybody saying shit, nothing getting done.” At this point, he’s speaking from experience; Lance knows that Keith spends a lot of time in a diplomatic role, now that he leads the Blade of Marmora. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shakes his head. “Besides, I never slept well back then.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He says it flippantly, like it’s easy to say, but that’s exactly the type of thing that Keith would have never admitted to when they were younger. Even something as seemingly insignificant as that would have been far too personal to share. So much of himself was so guarded. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The easy openness now makes Lance feel warm. (And before you blame it on the alcohol, Jamie, he hasn’t had nearly that much beer.) “I hope,” Lance clears his throat. “I hope you’re sleeping better nowadays.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith makes a noncommittal noise. “Sure. When there’s actually room for me in my bed.” His mouth twitches in amusement. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pleasant warm shifts to uncomfortable heat on Lance’s cheeks. He sets his glass down too hard on the table: it clatters. It’s true that Galrans are much bigger than humans, generally. Sleeping with one would be...a lot. If you’re into that. Which, if Keith is, is fine. Totally fine. Totally no problem-o, hunky-dory, abso-freaking-lutely fine. “I didn’t know you were seeing anybody,” Lance says. Read: remarks, way too loud and way too obvious. Read: shouts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A funny look passes over Keith’s face. “Sure.” He motions for Lance to come closer; Lance leans in. Close enough to whisper. Keith lays a heavy hand on Lance’s back, right between his shoulder blades.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s massive, Lance.” Keith says, hushed. He bites his lip, raises his eyebrows meaningfully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance swallows. Massive? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And. He really loves cuddling. A sweetheart.” Keith tilts his head, looks thoughtful. “Kinda smells. Sheds a lot.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance frowns. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Slobbers even more.” Keith says, lifting the hand from Lance’s back, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what can ya do about it?</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance frowns, deeper this time. Opens his mouth, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my dog. Lance,” Keith is grinning, “I’m talking about the space wolf.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You!” Lance pushes him. “What the—Keith!” Keith swats him off half heartedly and Lance pushes him again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith makes a little wheezing noise that Lance has never exactly heard before: he’s laughing. Really hard. “I can’t believe you!” Lance needlessly exclaims, just to see if he can prolong the way Keith is smiling. Lance’s face feels hot, from a blush now, but it’s not bad. None of this is bad. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The waitress-who-is-also-the-bartender stops by their table, brings them another round. Keith takes a long drought, ignoring the foam this time. He’s still smiling when he sets down the glass. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’m not seeing anybody,” Keith says, swallowing. The smile suits his face so well. He has dimples and everything. “You?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a loaded question, one that nobody but Keith would have the balls to ask. The break-up with Allura was rough. Not that the two of them aren’t on good terms now, they are, of course, but. It was one of those break-ups where the friends are sort of forced to take sides. And, well, Lance ended up on Earth and everybody else...didn’t. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not that the rest of the gang doesn’t care about him! Shiro calls him every week like clockwork and Pidge loves to send him random tech to test out and Hunk is a literal angel of a friend. And Allura— Allura’s great, really. They just didn’t work out like that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” Lance shrugs. He looks down at his fists in his lap. “Not really.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith must notice the shift in his mood. Lance expects a gruff, ‘Sorry,’ and for Keith to change the subject. What he doesn’t expect: </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith lifts the hand closest to Lance, tucks a bit of hair behind Lance’s ear. Lance is wearing it just a little longer these days than he did as a paladin. Mostly because he doesn’t go into town much, and he’s too vain to cut it himself and do a shitty job of it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith tucks the hair behind his ear, so gentle, lingering. He leans close, looking up into Lance’s face. Gaze soft, sweet, his dark eyes meeting Lance’s without hesitation. He asks, “Loverboy Lance isn’t getting all the ladies?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a rib, but it’s sweet. He’s joking, light-hearted, but it’s not at Lance’s expense. Lance gives him a half smile in return, watching as Keith’s hand comes to settle on the space in between where they’re sitting. Still close enough to touch. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” Lance says again. Keith is quiet, listening. He’s always been a good listener, Lance thinks. Other people might not realize it, because Keith is so blunt, but he’s someone who really, truly listens when someone he cares about is talking. Almost like he’s hungry for it, the way he drinks it in. This isn’t the first time that Lance has noticed it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I, well man, y’know how it is. I guess, I kinda, outgrew that schtick.” Lance taps his fingers on the table. Not exactly nervous, but. “It never really worked for me anyways,” he adds, half joking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods, thoughtful. Serious. Until he bumps Lance’s shoulder with his own. “Except for on Vasker-Mar, right?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance’s mouth drops open. He completely forgot about that! And— what the! Keith wasn’t even supposed to know about that! Nobody was! “You knew?!” Lance accuses. “That was— Keith! That was a secret! No one knew about that!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was only making out. A little heavy petting. With a very blue, very beautiful, very </span>
  <em>
    <span>alien</span>
  </em>
  <span> chick. She had three tongues— and while that might </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound</span>
  </em>
  <span> great— something in her saliva made his entire mouth completely numb. Pretty much immediately. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not as subtle as you think, Casanova,” Keith grins. He shakes his head. Looks away. “How could I forget though? Jesus Christ, Lance, I was so jealous.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance taps his lips thoughtfully. Was the numb mouth really that bad? He winces. Yeah, actually it was. Because as soon as he mouth went numb, he started to drool. A lot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, to be young. And dumb. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And macking on random aliens in deep space. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, no, man, don’t be too jealous.” Lance grins over the top of his glass. “It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Keith grins back, glint of humor in his eyes now. He raises a brow. “Is that what the alien girl said afterwards?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, excuse me,” Lance hollers, lifting a hand, “Can we get this guy thrown out?” He points to Keith, who is now looking at him wide-eyed, “He’s got some really bad jokes, like early 2000s bad!!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance!” Keith practically jumps on him, trying to get Lance to put his arm down and stop making a scene. The table rattles as they wrestle in the booth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bartender-slash-waitress is definitely ignoring them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>From underneath Keith, Lance goes on the counter attack: “Oh yeah?” He tries to wiggle out of Keith’s grip but Keith is strong. No worries. He can still win. He has the ultimate finisher:  “I have three words for you Keith: Diertacus. Fishing. Hook.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith freezes. Even in the poorly lit bar, Lance can see the way the flush rises all the way from his collarbones to the uneven widow’s peak of his hairline. He squeezes Lance’s biceps where he has him caught, hard enough to bruise. “We promised never to speak of that again,” Keith hisses through his teeth, close to Lance’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He even shoots the waitress a worried glance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance grins. “Did we?” The smile gets wider, “No you’re right, we did. In fact, I remember promising to you that I would never, ever, ever, tell anyone about the fact that you—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith slaps a hand over Lance’s mouth. “Don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance manages to break free, “But then it turned out to be,” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith practically has climbed on top of him by this point, pressing Lance down into the seat of the booth,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And it was so big!” Lance wheezes, trying to push Keith off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I will sneak into your house and feed your face goop to the space wolf,” Keith grits out, smooshing Lance’s cheeks with his hands. He glares, deep into Lance’s eyes. “Don’t. Start.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tackle box,” Lance manages through smushed lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith collapses on top of Lance, his head is hanging between his shoulder blades, low enough that some of his hair tickles Lance’s face. “That’s it,” he says, raising his fingers to whistle, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait! Keith!” Lance grabs his hand. There’s no reason to bring his expensive moisturizer into this. “Don’t do this!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Swear to me!” Keith demands. He shakes Lance a little. “Lance!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance blows him a kiss. And winks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance throws his head back and laughs. Holy crow, he forgot what this was like. There’s nobody as fun to tease as Keith. Nothing else compares. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is over top of him, still slightly flushed, smiling an exasperated sort of smile. He shakes his head, sitting back. “You’re terrible,” he comments, half under his breath. He hasn’t dropped Lance’s hand, but instead uses it to pull Lance back into a proper sitting position. Keith squeezes before letting go. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Terribly charming,” Lance says, batting his eyes. He situates himself back in the booth next to Keith. He nudges their thighs together, his knee bumping against Keith’s under the table. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ducking his head, Keith mumbles something, too low for Lance to catch. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance drains the last of his glass, feeling slightly winded. Maybe from the belly laugh or the warmth of the room. Or maybe from the feeling of Keith’s weight pressing against his hips. He catches Keith watching him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly?” Lance starts, setting the cup back down, “We all have too much dirt on each other at this point. No one is safe.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s true.” Keith agrees. He drums his fingers against the table, lost in thought. Lance watches: unkept fingernails, sturdy hands, fingerless gloves. They still. “The Ayoum dinner.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nooo,” Lance groans, slumping over. “No, you did not. Keith!” The very distinct memory of a toga-like dinner attire and aliens that looked like big hairless blobs rises to his mind. He shivers. “I never want to wear Ayoumian linen again, for as long as I live.” The fabric was scratchy in a way that Lance can hardly explain, like wearing a dress made of spiders. Euyuck. Lance sticks out his tongue in disgust. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Plus the damn thing was so short! It barely covered Lance’s ass. You could definitely see his boxers, which, at the time, was mortifying. (He can even remember: that day he was wearing the blue one with eggs on them. Little over-easy eggs. He was so worried that Allura was going to think they were lame. In retrospect, she probably wasn’t even paying attention.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“At least yours fit,” Lance grumbles. He seems to remember Keith looking perfectly at ease in his spider-toga. (Actually...no matter what heinous garments they found themselves dressed in over the years, Keith remained perfectly Keith-y. Crossed his arms and leaned against whatever surface happened to be vertical and nearby. Lance purses his lips. With that attitude, Keith never looked bad, no matter how ridiculous the clothing.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Breezy though.” Keith recalls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, yeah, just you and your boxers, out there for the all world to...” Lance waves a hand philosophically. He doesn’t miss the way Keith looks away. “Wait. Keith.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith makes a pinched face like he ate a whole lemon. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You.” Lance takes a deep breath. It’s all coming together. He wracks his brain and can only remember Keith’s hairy thighs looking...pretty much perfect.  “Wait. You. You definitely went commando under the alien toga didn’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith squints. “Yes?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ohmigod. Oh. My. God.” Lance stomps on the floor underneath the table in glee. It rattles and the waitress continues to ignore them. “That’s! Dude!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is that so weird?” Keith demands to know, hands spread wide in supplication. His voice raises a pitch. “Why is that weird? Lance?!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” Lance thinks back to the tribunal they had to attend on Ayoum that required the specific garb. It seems like they had to exchange their paladin armor for the vestments. Yeah, they did. It was symbolic or some shit. “Oh man. Did you give those blob guys your underwear?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No?” Keith looks confused. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then where did your underwear go?” Lance </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> confused. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t have any to begin with!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Woah, woah, woah. Keith.” Lance levels him with a look. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith returns the stare. “Yes, Lance?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please. Clarify for me.” Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need to know if I have this correct: You’re telling me. You did not wear </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span>thing under the paladin armor?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ever?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. I mean, no. I didn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance nods. Takes a breath. “Okay. What about the Blade of Marmora suit?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks confused. “It’s like the same thing?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(No. It’s not! Believe him, Lance has spent a great deal of time wondering exactly how Keith can fit into that Mamoran outfit. That thing is practically painted on. But that’s...getting off topic.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Never? Never </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith crosses his arms. “Yeah? Lance? Why are you so weirded out by that? It’s normal.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Buddy, nothing about you is normal.” Lance spent a lot of time in the gray undersuit that went with the paladin armor. A lot of time. The material was stiff, not unlike denim. “That’s like not wearing anything under jeans!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks at him. Blinks. “Yeah…?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ohmigod.” He never…!! Keith doesn’t…!! Lance presses a palm against his forehead. Wait. He looks down at Keith’s legs, Keith sitting next to him in the booth. He’s wearing jeans. He’s wearing jeans right now! “Ohmigod!!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shifts, looking mildly uncomfortable. “It’s not weird!!” he insists. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>More drinks arrive; Lance ignores them. He’s having a moment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance has his head in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the table. “I can’t believe you were freeballing the entire time we were saving the universe.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A smile crosses Keith’s face. He scoots close to Lance. Breath hot against his ear as he smirks: “Yep.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My perception of reality is forever altered,” Lance decides, fighting back the tingles that raced up his spine at the feeling of Keith’s breath on him. He fails, shivering. “I’m a changed man.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith sips. His eyebrows twitch. “Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance sits up, taking a deep breath. What the quiznack. “I feel like I’m seeing you in a whole new light, Kogane.” Lance jokes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Glass hovering between the table and his mouth for a moment, Keith pauses. He sets it down, soundless. “That so?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the other side of the bar, there’s a game of darts starting up. More people have finally found their way into Lotty’s for the evening. Lance watches them. He’s thinking back to a time when he and Keith had to do this stupid training exercise on some planet in the Primia system. It involved a board and sharp objects but, really, it was nothing like darts. The two of them were fighting the whole time; they failed the exercise spectacularly. It was stupid. Lance can’t even remember what the fight was about. Probably nothing. Stupid. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad we don’t fight anymore.” Lance says. It’s not something he intends to say; it just slips out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t seen you in months, Lance.” Keith follows his gaze, watching the guys with the darts. One guy has a phenomenally bad toss and both Keith and Lance smirk at the outcome. “Kinda hard to argue if we never see each other.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We see each other!” Lance can think of at least three conference calls that he attended where Keith was there, representing the Galrans. Okay… that doesn’t really count. “Well, when we do see each other, I mean.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re fighting right now.” Keith points out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No we’re not,” Lance insists. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks unimpressed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance blows out a breath. “I just…” He shifts, rolling his shoulders. Does he really wanna do this? Yeah. He kinda does. “I mean. Remember all the stupid stuff we used to fight over?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. “We were young,” he shrugs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was an ass,” Lance corrects. He didn’t get it back then, but Keith never had the chip on his shoulder that Lance thought he did. Looking back, Keith was prickly and awkward. But there were times that he tried to get along. He was making an effort, in his own Keith-y way. He didn’t want a rival. He wanted a friend. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You….were an ass.” Keith agrees. Lance shoves him. “But. Yeah.” Keith’s hand is in a fist, his thumb crossing over his knuckles. Something he does when he’s nervous— Lance knows the tell. He continues, low voice gentle: “I wasn’t. The most open. So.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The two of them fall silent, both likely lost in memories— how it was when they met. It took a lot to get to where they are now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance settles back in the booth, head resting on the pleather, looking up at the ceiling. “You gave me the silent treatment for two whole weeks because I called the,” he frowns, remembering the Altean word, “Mingodoffer. You ignored me because I called the mingodoffer a toaster.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There was no bread, Lance,” Keith says, completely serious, looking back at him. “If there’s no bread then how could it be a toaster?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Because it toasts, Keith!” Lance tries to flick him, but Keith blocks. Easily. “And, dude, there were only five other people to talk to on the castleship— not counting the mice, which I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>— the silent treatment really sucks!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance knows that Keith could retaliate with a story of his own— maybe about Lance ragging on his clothes, or something nasty that Lance said just to see Keith get riled up, or maybe something that Lance did that hurt and he doesn’t even realize that it did. But Keith doesn’t counter with a story of his own. Because Keith isn’t really that type of person. Not really. He just stays silent, thoughtful. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It took a lot to get to where they are now. But it was worth every dobosh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance smiles. Keith can give it as good as he gets, he knows, but in the end, he’s positive that Keith has his back. They’re there for each other. They have an understanding like that. They always have. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve seen each other at their best— like the day that the two of them managed to beat the highest level on the training bot. Keith was so excited that he ran laps around the training deck, whooping, and Lance couldn’t help but tackle him. They laid there on the floor, breathless, grinning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve seen each other at their worst— Lance, exhausted, worn down from everything, homesick and heartsick and hurting, dragging himself to Keith’s room. Keith opened the door and just...seemed to understand. Lance will never forget the way that Keith just made space for him in his bed, the way the two of them watched some dumb Altean sitcom together, sharing breaths and bodyheat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So many moments like that. Keith’s eyes going wide at Lance’s bayard becoming a sword, Lance preening over Keith liking his speciality made milkshake, the two of them planning together before a battle—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve seen each other bloody and bruised, speechless with wonder, tear streaked, giddy with joy,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re my best friend.” Lance realizes. There’s nobody he trusts like he trusts Keith. Nobody else with whom he can act like this. He says it and realizes it then, but, it’s been true for a long time. He lifts his head to look at Keith. “Did you know that, Keith?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is stiff. All of a sudden, his movements go unnatural, jerky. He turns to look at Lance, wide-eyed under his messy hair. “I—” He ducks his head, one hand at the nape of his neck. Eyes dipping away from Lance’s face. “Uh.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s another thing that anybody can tell you about Keith— he’ll face down an entire legion of Zarkon’s trigger-happy foot soldiers, but a single compliment can bring him to his knees. The guy can’t stand to hear a nice thing about himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keith.” Lance’s voice is quiet— the group across the bar is getting louder, only Keith will hear this— quiet, but sure: “I missed you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s gaze flits from Lance to his own lap. He nods. Clears his throat. “Let’s get out of here.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance smiles. He should have known that getting all sappy and after school special on Keith would freak him out. But he’s glad that he got that off his chest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels right. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels right, when the two of them argue over who’s paying the tab— Lance should because, hey, they are on </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> planet, but Keith says the visit was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels right, when the two of them step out into the parking lot together, bodies warm and faces flushed. The air is freezing and the sun has set. While they’ve been in the bar, it started to snow. Big fluffy flakes drift down from the dark sky above, like out of nowhere, like magic. (Lance has seen magic— he would know.) They settle over Keith’s flyaways, gilding them in the single light outside the bar. Their boots crunch over the salted sidewalk. It’s quiet.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance watches as Keith wets his lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants to say,</span>
  <em>
    <span> they’ll get chapped in the cold. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“When are you leaving?” Lance asks him, instead of saying anything else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks at him. He was walking slightly ahead, but now he turns to face Lance, toe to toe. His hands are in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and his hair is lifted in the wind, and his shoulders are hunched against the cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance,” he says. He straightens up, squaring his shoulders. He takes one hand out of the pocket of his sweatshirt. And his expression— it’s one that Lance has seen a bajillion times before. On Earth, yeah, before a sim exam. Training, aboard the castleship. Flying into battle. Arguing and collaborating and living with Keith, as long as he has, Lance has seen this. It’s clear cut resolve, bold determination, a force of will that Keith relies on to keep everything that he values. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance pauses, he parts his lips, about to—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith dips forward, right hand cupping Lance’s face, under his ear, Keith’s thumb on his cheek. He dips forward, mouth against Lance’s, hot and firm and sure. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s hand is warm on his skin, his mouth is hot over Lance’s. He kisses Lance. Just like that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s over as quickly as it began. Keith leans in for the kiss, movement fluid. Gentle, in how he held Lance, but sure. Resolved. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As he withdraws, Keith is wearing that same bullheaded expression— slightly angry, like he’s already expecting rebuke, a slight furrow to his brow. One that means, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve already decided and this is what I’m doing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance feels the loss of the warmth of his hand against his cheek. He touches the place where Keith’s hand just was, listens to the bound of his pulse in his ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is determined and resolved and sure, he is, but he meets Lance’s eyes, and Lance can see something else too. A vulnerability that comes with being all or nothing. The rush of fear that comes with risk. It’s a nuance that Lance has never exactly noticed, but now he wonders if that’s been in Keith all along. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance, I—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey man.” Lance steps closer,  cutting Keith off. Following him where Keith stepped away. “Run that by me again?” he requests, touching light against Keith’s arm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The happiness that breaks over Keith’s face is profound. Lance surprised him— Lance loves surprising him— but it’s only right that he did. If Keith surprised Lance, Lance gets him back. They work like that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger that,” Keith nods, serious and playful all at once. Just like Keith. He’s smiling— that fond one again, and hey, Lance could get used to that kind of smile directed at him, he really could, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then, Lance is in Keith’s arms again, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> kiss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith is sure and dark and deep, the way he has his hand resting against Lance’s cheek, the way his mouth works, pressing close to Lance like he’s hungry for this, for only this. Lance has handfuls of soft sweatshirt, bunching it in his fists. He drops the sweatshirt, deciding to get a handful of Keith’s ass instead. He enjoys the yelp over his mouth when he squeezes, tastes the smile that follows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith kisses him, again pulling Lance close. Tender, slow, soft— until it’s not kissing at all, but just the feel of his breath on Lance’s lips. Until their noses are touching and their breaths are shared and Lance’s heart is beating so fast.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keith,” Lance says, kissing along his jaw, burying his nose against Keith’s neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks at him, but he doesn’t go so far that his hands leave their current place on Lance’s hips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Lance doesn’t continue, Keith presses a kiss against his mouth, chaste and sweet. Paired with the openness of his expression, it feels like a question. There’s snow crystals on his flyways, gilding his dark hair— every fat, fluffy flake leaving its mark as they come down endlessly from the dark sky. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not fair,” Lance decides in a murmur. “I asked you something first.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance runs his fingers through Keith’s hair. The warmth melts the snow; some locks are now wet. Dripping even. “When are you leaving?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shrugs, pulling away slightly. “Never intended to stay.” He looks at Lance, serious as anything. “Come with me,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t.” Lance responds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods, expression shifting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hoverbike is here; stepping off the sidewalk, Keith backs into it, half leaning against the saddle. There’s a couple inches of accumulation, snow piled on the ridiculous bike. Arms crossed, chin tilted close to his chest, eyes downcast. “Figured you’d say that,” he says, too steady. Like he’s making an effort to sound that way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t,” Lance reiterates, stepping back into Keith’s space— now in between his legs. He presses a hand to either side of Keith’s cheeks. Right where they’re pink with chill. He’s getting cold. They both are. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t.” Lance says, kissing him. Over his mouth, “Because,” his nose, “It’s about to be,” One cheek, then the other, “Christmas,” between his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s brows pull together, right in the exact spot where Lance just planted a kiss. “Huh?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keith,” Lance says, enjoying the way Keith looks up at him, angry and confused and hopeful, but mostly confused. “Do you know how many Christmases I missed while we were saving the universe?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shakes his head. His face is still in between Lance’s hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Five.” Lance tells him. “Five. You know how I know?” He doesn’t wait for Keith to answer. “My ma has reminded me every damn day for the past two months. I made a blood pact,” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One of Keith’s brows raises, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay not really a blood pact, but a serious promise, Keith! I promised I won’t miss any more Christmases. Not if I can help it. So I can’t.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. “Guess not.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“However.” Lance kisses him again, because now he can, and why haven’t they been doing this the whole time? When he pulls away, the beginning of a smile is over Keith’s lips. “However.” Lance pokes him in the chest. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> are coming home with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Rest, relax, enjoy the holiday. McClain style.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you ‘Lance’ me,” Lance tells him, eyes narrowed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grabs his hand. “Lance,” he says. “Sure. I’d love to.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. For real? Well. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That was easy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And after the holiday? When Keith asks him to leave again (because Keith has never stayed in one place for long; because once Keith has decided on something, there’s very little in the universe that can stand in his way; because, Lance knows, Keith values people, not places, as his home), when he asks Lance to come with him? That’ll be easy too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance already knows what it’s like to fly and fight and dream out there. And he has a feeling that this time around, it’ll be a lot less lonely. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Happy holidays to everyone and especially happy holidays to lostkimin— I hope the fic was nice :3 I hope it was nice and fluffy and fun </p>
<p>Just as a heads up, if anyone is reading this before the end of the year, that is, if you are reading this close to the post date, I recently reached a milestone on twitter and to celebrate I am offering a fic giveaway. Feel free to <a href="https://www.twitter.com/jacqulinetan/"> find me over there</a> and check my pinned to enter for a fic written by me for you. If you want!! </p>
<p>Thank you again for reading &lt;3&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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